On the Tuesday after Bernie died, I visited Burwood Beach with his wife Mary and her son Oliver.

It was there, in that space between land and sea, that he left us and his 'genio loci' welcomed him into their embrace. Dad spoke often of the genio loci, the spirits of a place. He believed in them. They were a constant presence in his life, almost an ancestral force in the country which had borne him, in the 'waters of oblivion at Merewether Baths', and in the ocean currents which he followed and fished.

Pacific by name, it could have been the Aegean. A light wind rippled its azure surface, brushing it gently towards the shore. The sea brimmed full to coastline.

Bernie loved that long wash of the Australian ocean as it blanketed the hard sand, that cascading rush that daily soothed his feet and his soul. He had walked to that point over and around and beside the ancient stones that so captivated him, the very stones he cupped, carried and caressed as the essence of an ancient land.

On that Tuesday, one could almost imagine a small fleet of Athenian triremes landing on the beach at that hour, to take him on the final journey back to Ithaca. Back to be with his gods; the arriving, as the poet Cavafy says, that he was always 'destined for'.

The whole thing was almost a conspiracy of the very geography, memory and history that shaped him and made him aware. A conspiracy of the very best kind: of the forces that made him and which he let take him to new discoveries and new quests for knowledge and understanding about worlds ancient, classical and modern.

It was in places like this that his imaginary worlds merged. There is an equilibrium in that spot - the dreaming of the Aborigines, 'the stones for the Socratics', to quote from his own poetry, the blue sky and golden sand of Bernie's own Hellas, and that endless, immense Australian sky above. All of it came together in this spot.

The gullies as you walk that track up and up to the summit are choked; choked in the best possible way, with Australian natives. The wattle, that golden frothed foam of commonwealth, is reaching out to you as you ascend towards the summit. The hardenbergia with its outrageous violet blossom. Sapling gums, too, their leaves almost sad in their droop, yet exuding a new, near-glistening khaki sheen.

And Dad was always climbing. Always looking ahead, ever upwards.

Always striving to be better, always striving to get the best out of himself, and to help others believe that they could not only climb with him but reach for their own stars as well.

That was his truest gift to each of us. The belief that we could be better, that we could all get there.

Dad practised this belief every day, and it was wholly visible to us all. To his family, his friends, to generations of Classics students, Evatt House residents, the year-round swimmers at Merewether, to scrum fulls of rugby players. Inspired, challenged and kindly encouraged by his mentor and great, great friend, Godfrey Tanner, Bernie was in constant, tireless pursuit of what his beloved Cicero called humanitas - the pinnacle of all Roman virtues. It asserted man's importance as a cultivated being through a love of learning and through being in control of his moral universe. The man who practised humanitas was confident of his worth, courteous to others, decent in his social conduct, and active in his political role. He was a man, moreover, who won the legitimate right to lead because of their personal qualities that inspired respect and loyalty: and Bernie strived for this from the moment he got out of bed to make himself and Mary the first of the day's countless pots of hot tea, to the moment he closed his weary eyes at night.

Bernie Curran was our father, and Lizzie's; husband to Jeannie and Mary; grandfather to Chloe and Olivia, to Sophie, Jessica, Ben and Layla, and to Pia and Ella. He was a brother to Brian, John, Paul, Chris, Michael and Frank, to Vonnie, Anne, Cath, Mary and Margie, and uncle to a multitude.

And of course, he was a son to John and Margaret, or 'Peggy' as she was affectionately known. It was the softness and quiet strength of his mother that shaped him most. True, he was a great educator like his father, a lifelong, selfless servant of the community too, but he was never the disciplinarian like John. It was Peggy's heart he had. Hers was the heart that really touched him, made him who he was really.

Bernie was a friend to so many. A mentor to students. An inspiration to his colleagues. A leader of people, and a guide to all of us.

Today we mourn him. But we also celebrate the life of a remarkable human being, someone who had a very real aura around him, that magnetic charisma, that Irish charm, that sense of humour. You just wanted more of him. Always.

Bernie's embrace of those he loved was so total; his commitment to his ideals so steadfast;

his devotion to others so constant, so unrelenting, so selfless; his energy seemingly so boundless; and the capacity for empathy and understanding, to reach into the hearts and minds of those he loved and knew, so unrivalled;

His death was always going to leave a hole that simply cannot be filled: in our families, in the life of this community, especially the University; and in the wider Hunter region.

And yet, as Thucydides said, the real memorials are never really those graven in stone - though Bernie does leave plenty of them - but those, rather, which remain in our hearts and minds.

We have lost so much but let us also acknowledge and celebrate what we have gained.

In knowing and loving Bernie, we have gained a shining, lasting example of a life lived for others. We have gained a legacy of tenacity and perseverance. He never, ever gave up or gave in. We have gained an exemplar of what it means to love wholly, presently and unconditionally. We have gained and absorbed his boundless courage and compassion in the face of challenge. We have gained an understanding of the virtue of living a life of service, of kindness, of learning and of love.

How lucky we are. How privileged we are. How humbled we feel in the face of these gifts so lovingly bestowed by Bernie.

Bernie's was a rich life, an Australian life, and if the ocean and coast were Bernie's Hellas, then the City of Newcastle was his Rome.

His Order of Australia is testament to the multi-varied contribution he made to the life of both the University and his beloved Hunter Valley across so many decades.

A student of the university from its first days, he became one of its true fathers.

A star rugby player for the Uni Club, he became its President and patron.

A classicist fighting to save and nurture the res publica, he sought to interpret our present while also facing firmly towards the future. A model example of the University's motto "I look ahead".

He saw the classical influences on this country while also discovering more and more about its ancient indigenous past and Australia's Asian setting.

A sports administrator par excellence, he named the Forum and brought to it that idea which sustained him: mens sana in corpore sano

He was the inaugural Warden of Evatt House, bringing the country students under his wing. He adapted a traditional English college system to an Australian context, tossing aside the hierarchical and authoritarian habits of the old world for a more egalitarian and empowered approach that involved students in the making of policy and planning, traditions and culture.

This was the public Bernie.

But, with Lizzie alongside us, we adored him as our dad, our best and dearest friend, and our fearless protector. His heart seemed so big: there was so much room in it for everyone in his family. As his children, he lifted us up and loved us fiercely. He called us on Fathers' Day to thank us for making him a dad. He taught us the value of developing an authentic connection with others, of joining the dots. We knew that no matter how much trouble we were in, how naughty we'd been, what mistake we'd made that Bernie would always, always love us.

And we adored his daggy dad humour. Egged it on. Craved it.

As children the three of us gaped in awe as - we still don't know how it was done - he swallowed an entire banana whole.

Many of us still think about his signature joke: 'Why is a chicken?' Answer? 'Because one of its legs is both the same'. Think about that too long and it will drive you to distraction.

There were his traffic light antics: where, at a red light, he would pull out an old telecom handset - that dull yellow one with the coiled cord - and then feign to talk on it: much to the consternation and amazement of those stopped alongside him. On one famous occasion, he wound down the window on the Kingswood, held out the handset to the driver next to us, and called out "It's for you!"

If the phone handset was not easily located and we pulled up first in line at the top of Russell Rd at the intersection with Croudace St, Bernie blessed each driver as they turned right in front of us with a solemn sign of the cross to carry them through their day. Those looks on their faces were just priceless, and I am surprised there were not more accidents!

As children, to stave off the boredom of those long January journeys north to South West Rocks or south on the Old Pacific Highway to 50 Pennant Hills Rd, we were given spelling challenges: it took years for us to spell PHLEGM, CHAMOIS or DUMARESQ properly.

More recently we reflected on his obsession with long words, really, really long words: such as 'antidisestablishmentarianism'. Or 'floccinaucinihilipilification': the action of estimating whether something is worthless or not. We are still asking if we really needed to know it.

On family holidays at Allynbrook he held an Olympics for the three of us. We guessed how many sheep poos were in a jar. Laps of that cottage were our own glorious 400m races replete with commentary Bruce Mcavaney can only dream of. We high jumped over two barrels and a long twig between. We long jumped by careering over the BBQ, that other hearth over which he loved to preside. We skimmed stones at the river.

At South West Rocks there was the fishing at Back Creek, evening barbecues at Trial Bay, the long walks to Gap Beach with Col, the "can you hold this line for me while I go to the car". Son and son in law, daughters and daughter in law, grandchildren, nieces and nephews all experienced the thrill of the moment of realisation - "Hey Bernie, I reckon there's a fish on here!" And every time, he would reply, "No...wow, good on you, now let me help you reel it in safely."

He never had a bad word for anyone really, but there was one word which was so Bernie - 'fink'. It remained undefined, but the tone in which it was said often conveyed the impression that whomever the 'fink' was - they were well, someone who, let's just say, exhibited a certain deficiency in character.

No one ever wanted to be a 'fink'.

And then there was his car. That car. Be it the Volkswagen, the Kingswood or the Commodore, it surely deserves to be in the National Museum of Australia. For these were not just vehicles of transportation.

It was also a bank - if you dug deep in the crevices, there were coins in there from pre-decimal currency days.

It was an office and filing cabinet. Receipts everywhere. Newspapers, speeches, committee minutes, agendas.

A fishing tackle emporium: lead sinkers would roll from one side to another - a trip over the Buladelah mountains played a symphony of sinkers. There'd be hooks jagged in the carpet. Impossible to dislodge.

A bait shop too. There'd occasionally be the foetid air arising from cungevoi that had spent too long in the sun.

It was a sports store - tennis and cricket balls, rugby gear, a pair of footy boots just in case Uni needed him on Saturday afternoon at 3, goggles and swimmers, swimming caps and towels he'd picked up from God knows where: those towels were inevitably so threadbare.

It was a roaming St Vincent de Pauls too - he would pick up all manner of t-shirts, shorts, hats and anything else he came across on a beach. You never know when they may come in handy!

As well, it was a surprisingly effective mode of livestock transport. Cecil the sheep, a true 'fink' in sheep's clothing, was purchased to keep the grass down at 210 St James Rd. Bernie's talent for wrangling livestock on his days on Bill Lieschke's farm came to the fore as he strapped Cecil, four legs poking forward, into my toddler carseat for the drive to the shearer. Hilarious, but effective!

We remember too the squinting of his eyes. That smile. The laugh which had its higher octave.

The left-handed scrawl of his writing - the cursive had long been stretched and flattened out of him but you still got the meaning. Indeed, the brain was working faster than the pen. He dug with his pen. Dug deep to the real meaning of the world around him.

And who could not notice that barrel chest, those thick, strong forearms that gave beautiful hugs, the stout legs. He'd still get turnover ball today for sure, at any ruck. And yet he kicked a football far too well for a loose forward!

His left arm spin with that flick of the wrist was at times unplayable.

His chopping of wood: by God he could handle an axe: it was a swing that came all the way from his country childhood in Denman, Stockinbingal and the Pillaga scrub. There was a delight in terrorising the woodpile. One of the sounds of our childhood winters is the block splitter's tearing crack.

And we know he pushed lawnmowers where no lawnmower should ever really go. He took it into battle, waged war with it, cajoled it, cursed it, loved it still. He was the bush bashing curator, the white stubbied warrior, a blazing conqueror of years and valleys.

Yet though indifferent himself to danger and sorrow, Dad wept over the sorrows of others.

Now his ship of life, having weathered so much, including some agonising personal storms, is anchored in tranquil waters. Proof indeed that courage, faith and a zest for life are truly indestructible.

The record of his passage through life, those he touched; those he loved, those he inspired

will continue to inspire all those who choose to dedicate themselves to a life of service for many a year to come.

Inevitably, we are left with Virgil's 'lacrimae rerum' - the tears of things:

'There are tears for suffering and our hearts are touched by what we have to bear'.

But in closing it is perhaps appropriate that we journey into the underworld with the greatest of Virgil's heroes, Aeneas, to find that crucial, defining link between the Aeneid and Bernie's sanctuary and heart space, Wollombi.

Many of you will know why the property at Wollombi was called 'Lethe'. Some of you won't. In this passage, Aeneas enters the underworld with his father, Anchises, to hear the story of Rome and to meet his ancestors. We offer this translation from the Irish Nobel Laureate Seamus Heaney:

...at the far end of a valley, Aeneas saw

A remote grove, bushy rustling thickets,

And the river Lethe somnolently flowing,

Lapping those peaceful haunts along its banks.

Here a hovering multitude, innumerable

Nations and gathered clans, kept the fields

Humming with life, like bees in meadows

On a clear summer day alighting on pied flowers

And wafting in mazy swarms around white lilies.

Aeneas startled at this unexpected sight

And in his bewilderment asked what was happening,

What was the river drifting past beyond them,

Who were the ones in such a populous throng

Beside it?

'Spirits', Anchises answered,

'They are spirits destined to live a second life

In the body; they assemble here to drink

From the brimming Lethe, and its water

Heals their anxieties and obliterates

All trace of memory. For a long time now

I have looked forward to telling you about them,

Letting you see them face to face, but most of all

I wished to call the roll of my descendants, parade

My children's children, so you could all the more

Share my joy at your landfall in Italia'.

Bernie is home now in Lethe with his ancestors and the 'genio loci', but his presence, that huge, enveloping, sustaining life force, remains.

We may all walk in a sea of fog for some time to come, looking for him and wondering why he had to go now. But when the fog lifts his life, legacy and love will still be there as a beacon as will his presence - Bernie will still be everywhere.

And if we close our eyes, and hold him in our hearts, we will see him as that young man on the hills overlooking Denman, the hills he ran to get fit. And there he is now, with 'Chariots of Fire' ringing powerfully in his ears, answering that call from Henry Lawson's poem 'On the Night Train'.

"I'm the mother bush that loves you - come to me now you are old".

Goodbye Bernie, go well - with love from all of us.